by Stacy Henrie
“I couldn’t tell you every reason the day we met, Joe, though I tried. You’ll recall I tried to explain, gave you many reasons. I would have told you myself, eventually.”
He rolled one thick shoulder. “Doesn’t matter now.”
She could have screamed. Of course it mattered— if they would save their marriage, all of this mattered.
“You have your life back.” He swallowed hard. She watched his Adam’s apple slide down his lean, tanned throat. “You’ll go back to New York City, I assume.”
“I have no interest in returning.”
“The newspaper you’re standing on explains the Administrator’s role in killing Mayor Brown. It seems the mayor’s wife hired a Pinkerton, two weeks before the man’s untimely death to pose as his driver and determine where a long line of threats originated.”
Joe’s voice reminded her of the metronome on Grandfather’s piano. And her many long hours of rehearsal. Monotonous. Stating facts. Rigid. Unyielding. Devoid of emotion.
Without so much as a glance at her, he continued, “Once Krenn and Thornton had the mayor in the hospital, they falsified records to implicate you. All so they could put their own man on the ballot and see him elected. It would have worked, if not for Mrs. Brown’s suspicions.”
Didn’t he care?
She hadn’t been made for the piano, couldn’t tolerate a metronome, and had no patience for his lack of passion. “I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but you and me and our marriage.”
“Your fancy life awaits you.”
“Joseph Henry Chandler, look at me.”
“If it’s all the same to you, madam, I respectfully ask that you not expect that of me.” He turned his back, his shoulders slumped.
Her heart broke for him.
She closed the distance, wrapped her arms about his middle, and hugged him tight, pressing her cheek to his back. And held on.
“I love you, Joseph Chandler. I love you.”
He tried to move out of her hold, and he could have, had he truly wanted to. She held on tighter. The stitches in her wound pulled, burning and complaining loudly. Let them tear out.
She kissed him over the scapula. “More than the solid, life-altering reason that I love you, I need this town almost as much as this town needs me. You can’t deny it.”
He didn’t answer.
No sense retaining a scrap of pride. “Nor can you deny that you need me.”
His posture softened, just a little. The warmth of his big hand settled over hers.
She could have wept with relief. “What can I do to convince you?”
When he didn’t reply, she asked, “What must I do to keep you?”
Joe hardly dared believe he’d heard her right.
He turned in her arms, cupped her face, the better to see the truth in her eyes. Love radiated from the blue depths. He’d seen this expression on her beautiful face over the past many days, but it took her saying the words for him to truly see.
He smoothed a thumb over the wet tracks on her cheek. “You realize I can’t leave Evanston. The people here—”
“I concede they need you, as much as— or more than— they need me.”
He searched her dear, familiar face. “You’re sure, about me?”
“For a doctor, you aren’t very bright.”
The teasing lilt in her tone made it easy to chuckle along with her. “Forgive me, but it’s hard to believe you want me, love me, more than the city, more than your career, more than the hospital your grandfather founded. It’s all waiting for you.”
“You believe I want that more than all I’ve found here, with you?”
Yeah, he had believed so.
Only dolts like him left the comfort and convenience of a city for the wilds of Wyoming Territory and liked it.
And maybe this one highly unusual woman.
“Oh, Joe.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed him. “Anyone can take care of business in the city, see the hospital run honestly. I’m needed here. You might not admit it, but—”
“I admit it. I need you.”
This amazing, wonderful woman wanted to stay. With him. In Wyoming Territory. In a tiny house wholly dissimilar to all she’d grown accustomed to her in her privileged life. The article spelled out how rich she’d been before her ill-fated marriage to Thornton.
His formerly wealthy wife would rather be paid in produce, meat, and traded services than cash.
She could have it all once more.
Her shocking choice pleased him beyond reason.
And made it easy to admit he loved her and wanted her to stay.
“I need you.”
A little grin teased her kissable mouth. “That’s a start.”
He kissed her again, this time lingering. “I love you, Naomi. I think I’ve loved you from the day we met, from our first kiss.”
“You withheld such important information?” She poked fun at herself, the choice to keep the falsified accusations secret.
“I admit it.”
“What do you mean, you think you loved me from our first meeting or first kiss?”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ve never been in love before. Guess I didn’t recognize the signs and symptoms for what they were. Therefore, I couldn’t diagnose the condition.”
“Never?” She blinked. “You’ve never been in love? You, who love so fully, so completely, so naturally, must have been practiced and proficient.”
“I know love of parents, brothers and sisters. But I’ve never loved a woman, not ’til you.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. “I never knew it was possible to love with this depth and meaning.”
“I’ve witnessed your love in so many ways, Joseph Chandler, but I do like hearing you say it.”
“I love you, Naomi. With all my heart.”
He cupped the back of her head, cradled her against his chest, and slowly rocked her in his arms.
Ah, yes. This felt just right. Her nearness, her determination to remain with him, at his side. The pair of them working together in medicine and in life.
To think he’d found her, when advertising for entirely someone else, astounded him. Luck had been on his side, during those long years when no one had followed through on his advertisement. Luck had graced him when Ernest Thornton proved himself a fool.
He’d never been so blessed as that moment, the love of his life snug within his arms.
“Doc Naomi?” A harried male voice yelled from the front walk. Footsteps pounded. “Come quick. The babe’s coming.”
Joe pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. This type of temporary goodbye he could handle.
The frantic father-to-be, recognizable now as the grocer, leaned heavily on the door frame. “Sorry to interrupt, Doc Naomi, Doc Joe, but you gotta come quick.” He addressed the plea to Naomi.
She slipped out of Joe’s arms. He handed her the prepared doctor’s bag and stole a kiss.
Joe tucked his hands deep into his pockets as he watched his wife pick up her skirts and charge after the grocer.
Bright sunlight cut through the clouds, streaming in slanted, blazing swaths. Amazing, that such natural brilliance could not compare to the radiance in his heart.
He paused, considered, then followed his heart up Front Street. He wouldn’t make a pest of himself, but simply wanted to be near Naomi and enjoy watching her deliver the new baby.
Babies. He picked up his pace, not wanting to miss the little one’s entrance into the world.
Now that he’d secured a perfect wife in Mrs. Naomi Chandler, he couldn’t wait for babies of their own.
He grinned as he made his way around back to the grocer’s residence and heard Naomi’s soothing voice instructing the laboring mother.
Wanted: Midwife. Check.
Wanted: Babies.
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I recall the winter of my first grade year, basking in the heat from our fireplace in Ka
lamazoo, Michigan. Dad read aloud Madeline L'Engle's A WRINKLE IN TIME and Mom peeled orange segments for us to enjoy. That was the definitive moment I fell in love with fiction. I write sweet (wholesome) romances set in the 19th Century American West.
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Chapter One
New York City, 1887
When Marilyn was called down from her room in the boardinghouse to meet a visitor, dread filled her middle. Her caller had to be Victor Hallows. No one else had visited her in nearly a year. And after she’d rejected his proposal of marriage last week, she’d hoped to never see him again.
She grudgingly descended the stairs and entered the parlor, where, sure enough, Victor stood waiting for her. The moment she cleared the threshold, he closed the door. Marilyn wished she could keep it open— privacy was the last thing she wanted with this man— but he’d block the door if she tried something, so she merely walked to the couch and sat down.
“I thought I made my wishes perfectly clear last time, Mr. Hallows,” she said.
“Oh, but I’m quite sure you didn’t think through the various possibilities that an acceptance would bring you.” Victor sat on the couch opposite her and set a newspaper and a pair of gloves onto the glass end table beside him. “Someone in my position— with money and a reputation— could raise one’s status quite remarkably. You’d never have to work another day of your life. You’d have servants and luxuries you can only dream of now.”
If he genuinely believed that money and status could convince her to marry a man she loathed, he was sadly mistaken. “I’m sorry, but the answer is still no. I will not marry you.”
Victor eyed her for several unnerving seconds before smiling with half of his mouth and cocking his head to one side. “I suppose I’d be amenable to a different type of arrangement, if you’d rather. You would still have wealth and luxury, without taking my name or wearing my ring on that pretty little hand of yours.”
She could sense a trick hiding up his sleeve. “But?” she prompted. “What price would I pay for such a life?”
“Nothing. Nothing more than giving me the pleasure of your company several nights a week.”
He wanted her to be his mistress? The very idea of his hands touching her— any part of her body— made Marilyn sick. She shook her head and swallowed back her disgust.
“Never,” she said. The concept of a mistress— of her becoming one— sent shivers down her spine.
“Sweet, naive Marilyn, you don’t understand how this world works,” he said. “You would be a fool for giving up the chance to be taken care of by someone with wealth and influence such as myself.”
“Then I will happily live my life as a fool.” She rose and walked to the door, hoping that would be enough to make him leave.
To her relief, he stood and followed her. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned in so close that the curled ends of his greasy mustache tickled her cheek. She tried not to react outwardly in spite of feeling as if cockroaches were crawling all over her.
“Remember,” he whispered with heavy breath, “you have nothing— no name, no money, no relations, no reputation— nothing but a pretty face to tempt a man, and your looks won’t sustain you forever. If you aren’t careful,” he added, “you’ll end up living on the streets, selling far more than flowers, in not many months’ time.”
Was he right? Would she end up on the streets? He was right that she had nothing and no one— no education, and not even skills beyond what she’d learned working at the Pricketts’ bakery. She’d gotten by, thanks to her position there. But the Pricketts were old, and the store lost more money every day. It would have to close in a matter of months, a year at best. Then how would she support herself?
After Victor’s last visit, she’d spent the night considering his offer, lying in her rented bed in a house stacked with other women in similar circumstances. He was a vile, vile man, granted. But perhaps she could endure his presence from time to time if doing so also meant never being hungry, having a soft bed each night, and never having to worry about replacing worn clothing with so many holes that it could no longer be mended. But no. She couldn’t abide being his wife. And she absolutely couldn’t abide being a mistress.
“I suggest you leave.” Marilyn straightened her back— picturing her spine filled with strong, un-rusted iron. “I have nothing more to say to you.” She reached for the doorknob, but Victor stopped her hand. His mouth slowly curved into a sickening smile that set Marilyn on edge.
“But I do have more to say. After you hear it, you may well have something more to say to me.”
She lacked the strength to ask what he meant, so she simply swallowed against a dry throat and waited, unsure of what to brace herself for. What it would be like to live in a household where one had platters of food brought to you, where you could buy new shoes without squirreling away coins for months in advance. Her right boot had a hole in the bottom, currently patched with layers of newsprint. What would he think if he knew that?
“An… associate of mine has met an untimely end,” Victor said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He clasped his hands behind his back and began walking around Marilyn in large, slow circles.
“Wh— what kind of associate?” Marilyn asked, hating her mouth for betraying her nerves with a stammer.
“A business associate... of sorts.” His step paused, and he turned to face her. “It would be most unfortunate if the police were to think that a young woman might have had something to do with his death. After all, the doctor who arrived at his bedside declared that he was most likely poisoned— something all too easy for a young woman of questionable morals to do without expecting to be caught.” He paused and looked at her, his face wearing a lecherous expression as his eyes wandered over every inch of her, taking in every curve as if she were some feast he planned to partake of.
“Wh— what are you saying?” Marilyn asked in a voice so quiet that it was barely more than a whisper.
“What if,” Victor said, continuing his speech as well as his circular path, “Mr. Fletcher’s poisoning wasn’t an unfortunate accident? What if the poison, intended for mice in his apartment, didn’t simply fall into his coffee but was placed there? What if a young woman, perhaps jealous of Mr. Fletcher’s attentions toward another young lady, had mixed the powder into his drink and then knowingly served it to him?”
He paused, looking at Marilyn, who stood stock-still. He made a contented noise that sounded amused. “And what if several eyewitnesses were willing to vouch that the young woman who visited Mr. Fletcher’s apartment the very day he died was none other than one Marilyn Davis?” He stopped and looked at her, his head cocked again.
A cold chill went through her. She shook her head once, twice, and then several times rapidly. “No,” she said. “You can’t possibly do such a thing. No one would believe—”
“No? Who would believe an orphan desperate to improve her status in the world, over the word of a respected businessman?” He chuckled outright this time and smoothed his mustache, curling the ends just so. “Oh, I think we both know whose word would be trusted, especially if that man has influential friends… and material evidence.” Victor returned to her, standing so close she could feel his breath on her face. “Do I make myself clear?” His airy tone had deepened into a far more serious one.
Marilyn’s mind raced, trying to find some way to escape his clutches. She could think of nothing. If she married Victor, she would lead a life of luxury and privilege but would despise her husband and never trust him around her children. How could she ever bear to be anywhere near a man who’d obviously committed a murder?
I cannot choose such an existence. But what else can I do?
If she refused, he would go to the police with whatever “evidence” he’d concocted, framing her for the murder of a man she’d never even met. She suspecte
d that the situation involved a gambling debt of Victor’s— or worse. If he went to the police, they would believe him. Why wouldn’t they? Who was she but a poor orphan with no connections to recommend her? How could she expect to contradict his statements and have anyone take her seriously when he had friends in powerful places throughout the city?
He stared at her still, his face having lost all trace of joviality and amusement.
“You’ve made yourself crystal clear,” Marilyn said, hardly able to unclench her teeth enough to speak.
“Then it appears you have a decision to make,” he said. “Think on it. I’ll pay a visit on Friday evening to hear your decision. I’ll even bring with me a pretty ring to put on that finger of yours, and we can take a carriage to a justice of the peace that very night.” Victor placed his hat on his head. “I’ve always preferred to complete negotiations and contracts and such as quickly as possible. A timely resolution is much more pleasant for everyone involved. I’m sure you’d agree.”
He leaned toward the end table and picked up his gloves and newspaper. “You enjoy reading,” he said, slapping the newspaper onto the coffee table, folded to show a specific article. His finger tapped a black circle that encompassed a bit of text. “This should provide you with some diversion,” he said. “I imagine you’ll find it most… interesting.” As he spoke, his voice dripped with sweetness like pastry glaze.
From where Marilyn stood, she couldn’t make out the words, not even in the headline. Victor nodded with a partial bow, then left the sitting room and let himself out of the boarding house altogether. The outside door shut with a thud. A moment later, she heard his footsteps and watched his shadow move across the window. He was gone, for now. Yet Marilyn still couldn’t move, for her feet felt glued to the rug.
Victor was far worse a human being than she’d ever suspected. He was a murderer. Simply thinking the word made her knees weak; she went to the couch and sat on it before they unhinged altogether. But then she was within arm’s reach of the paper, and she felt compelled to read it. As if steeling herself against a poisonous viper, Marilyn closed her eyes and reached for the newspaper. She kept her eyes shut at first, unwilling to look but knowing in her heart that she couldn’t resist. She would read it, if for nothing else than to be properly prepared.
